Coffee
by sangre antigua
Summary: It all started with a puddle of coffee... Chase/House


**Author:** sangre antigua/TR4G1C [old penname].

**Rating; Title; Pairing:** M; Coffee; Chase/House.

**Summary:** It all started with a puddle of coffee... Chase/House

**Warning/Disclaimer:** I do not own anything or anyone on **House M.D.**, unfortunately. Contains strong language and, later, sexual content.

- - -

You know those "CAUTION: WET FLOOR" signs? The ones that usually have "CUIDADO: PISO MOJADO" on the bottoms? The ones that are obnoxiously yellow so you can't miss them, with a bright red picture of a stick-figure falling over and bolded black lettering? Well, it seems that New Jersey has never heard of them before. I mean, it's a universal sign, whether it's in Japanese or Turkish or French or German or, God forbid, English—but New Jersey, one of the many northern states in the U.S. of A., doesn't seem to know what those are.

It's ironic, I guess, how the state of New Jersey decided to plot against me that day. Ironic because of how I spilled House's coffee everywhere. Ironic because of how, despite it being an accident, I didn't feel remorse. I just shrugged my shoulders and walked away, listening to him less and less while he cursed at me as I continued on my way. He said something about if my hair wasn't so perfect, he would feed me to a rabid Koala. Ha, ha.

Ironic because I fell on it myself, later.

Bastard didn't clean it up. He left a pool of black coffee on the white floor outside his office. No one—not even the janitor—had thought to have cleaned it up. Go figure.

I mean, he started it. I was just minding my own business and doing my rounds. I had a break in about twenty minutes once I had gone around and talked to my patients again. A sandwich from the cafeteria (which I hear was actually great that day, go figure) could have been swimming in my stomach, and I could've been rejoicing to Cameron about how my day was going swimmingly. But, no. I ended up _swimming_ in a pile of cold coffee and blood. Just because I had tripped over my own two feet and bumped into his shoulder, which sent the coffee flying out of the mug and onto the floor. Thankfully I didn't break the mug, too.

I don't think thick ceramic would've felt too nice embedded in my skull, neck and back.

But, then again, the tile floor didn't feel too great, either.

"I think he may have a concussion."

"Serves Wombat right."

"It's not right, House."

"Look at you, parading after him like a pink knight on a unicorn."

"House, c'mon."

The three voices seemed to mingle together above me, tangled like a randomly discarded ball of yarn. They intertwined and, like all good things, got more and more confusing as I tried to deifier what was what. I even got a headache. Or, better yet: I got a headache on top of a concussion, which made me sick to my stomach.

I gagged in my mouth and shot up. Somewhere along the way up—which felt like hours—someone shoved my head in a nearby trashcan. I puked several times. Three to be specific. And after each hurl, I croaked a word.

First time: "Fuck".

Second time: "This".

Third time: "Shit".

"I'd say he's got a concussion," said a voice, which sounded like Cameron, but with the words that followed afterwards by the two other people, I couldn't quite make out which words were hers and which were, I guessed, House and Wilson.

"Nah, Wombat just ate a bit too much grass," said the second voice.

"Nurse, can you get us a wheelchair? And that trashcan, if you will," sighed the third.

Judging by the phrases, I'd say the first was Cameron and _not _Cahoson, the second was House and _not_ Hoilron, and the third was Wilson and _not_ Wilcase. Even though that's what they sounded like.

- - -

It took them fifteen minutes to find a bed to put me in, mainly because I puked a few more times (those times, I said, "Where are we going?", "Why am I moving?" and "Jeez, I'm hungry", which earned a snarky reply from House each time and two sighs collectively from Wilson and Cameron) and House stopped at a vending machine to _steal_, not buy—I know this, because Wilson was chastising him the whole time—a pack of Starburst. This, of course, caused his hand to get stuck under the flap, his thigh to start hurting and his mouth to start going off until he had not only the Starburst, but a pack of Mentos and a nice red ring around his wrist. I know _that_ because he was all hyped up for the free candy, and pissed at the red ring. Something about salmon not being his color…

When I was moved onto the bed, I gagged again. But I did not puke, thankfully. I hate puking. It hurts and it's just unnecessary. It's like having your throat raped or something. But I _did_ get that sour, acidic taste in my mouth. Instead of vomiting, I spit in the trashcan while Cameron went to get me something more sanitary to dirty up. My vision was beginning to clear up as Wilson stopped spinning and started laughing at me about how he was amazed that I could carry so much food all at once. I had overeaten this morning and hadn't relieved myself yet, hence why I was as full as a bear preparing to hibernate. House kept on with the Wombat jokes until I rolled my eyes successfully.

And successfully gave myself a headache.

"God dammit," I huffed as Cameron handed me a pan. I began rubbing my temples, but as soon as I raised my arms, a strong whiff of coffee fluttered up to my nostrils and made my stomach contract. Too early for such a strong smell. I puked again. This time, it was introduced, accompanied and followed by strings of curses.

"You're really hostile today," House muttered as he plopped himself down in a chair, His cane was crossed over his lap and his fingers danced on top of the painted on flames.

"You gave me a God-damn concussion! How am I supposed to act?" Note to self: don't raise your voice.

"He's right, House," Wilson cooed. Always the mother hen. I had an image of him clucking around a barn flash through my head. It was amusing, to say the least. And came with only minimal aching.

"He started it," House countered.

"Did not! It was an accident!" Well, way to listen to me, self.

"House, you're going to give him an aneurism or something," Wilson teased, but in his typical, that-was-a-doctor-joke-but-since-I'm-in-doctor-mode-I-won't-allow-it-to-sound-funny fashion. He fixed his tie before pushing his hands into his pockets. "Chase, you're gonna have to wait here until I get x-rays arranged. When Cameron comes back, I'll have her help you fill in an admittance form."

"And when you're discharged, I'll have you mop up the blood and coffee in front of my office." House smirked. The smugness of it made my head throb. "And then get the caution sign from the janitor's closet, so some poor, poor person doesn't fall and hurt themselves." He practically gleamed victory as he rose to his feet. Like his plain t-shirt, his jeans, his cane, his Nikes—his skin!—were all made out of golden victory, and it was all being hit at once by the great big sunbeam that is acknowledging his win. "Do you know how hard it was to keep the janitor away? I had to pay him like forty bucks to keep from cleaning it up. I even had to re-spill coffee all over the place because he had already cleaned it up once!"

"House." Wilson's brows were knitted together and his jaw was clenched. Either he was furious for having House mess with me—which would be normal, since Wilson always thought House was getting out of hand—or he was trying his hardest not to laugh, and in turn looked like he was about to shit himself.

As they walked away together, Wilson preaching to House about how mocking someone was one thing, but injuring _and _mocking was another, Cameron waltzed into the room and pulled a chair up, a see-through clipboard in her hands.

"State your name, first, middle and last. I'm going to need a full patient biography," she teased, winking once before she began filling in the blacks on the sheet that she already knew.

I rolled my eyes at her scalp.

I winced.


End file.
